


a current running through

by aweekofsaturdays



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison Argent, California, Character Study, F/F, Femslash, Kissing, Maps, Music, Pacific Northwest, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trip, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays/pseuds/aweekofsaturdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is too small for the summer; our girls leave town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a current running through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katarama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/gifts).



> [katarama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama) prompted, "Queer-ass girl band. Kicking ass and taking names and not putting up with bullshit from anyone. Supporting each other and being really physically affectionate and refusing to tear each other down." 
> 
> Apparently this turned into pre-formation-of-said-band origin story with bonus road trip. Now accepting band name suggestions.

Imagine our four girls heading out of Beacon Hills in an old beat up periwinkle-blue Suburban, feet kicked up on the dash and arms slung out windows. Maybe Malia or Kira got a job with Scott at Deaton’s and saved up enough to buy it from one of their neighbors, maybe Lydia chipped in and Allison did some strategic negotiating to make sure they got a fair price. Either way, it’s theirs for the summer; they call it “Baby” and Allison teasingly murmurs to it when she fills the tank. They love Baby, cheering it on up the hills out of town as it rumbles onwards. 

Lydia’s in charge of the maps, plotting out the best route and checking it against the GPS on her phone. She’s constantly surrounded by sheets of paper, her kicked-off heels worn-in and pale on top of Kira’s bag in the front seat. They all give her shit for the paper maps (although Kira likes them to be honest), but Lydia tosses her hair every time and scoffs at them all, saying something about just being able to _feel_ the right route with exaggerated haughtiness (when really she just loves the feel of paper in her hands, loves the added tingle of “look Lydia, follow the treasure map!” she gets every time). 

Allison drives, mostly, nodding her head along to the radio and cranking up the volume to belt along with Pat Benatar and Whitney Houston. She chews on endless sticks of beef jerky and her new nose piercing flashes silver in the warm afternoon sunlight. She’s always tapping out rhythms on the steering wheel when they get started, and by the end of her shift (if the drive’s a long one) she’s crooning along with Ella, trickling out jazzy notes and the tss-tss-tss of a cymbal as the miles wind away.

Malia sleeps most of the way during the daylight hours, curled up in the backseat with Kira running absent fingers through her hair, petting and kneading against her scalp. Malia does most of the loading of their gear when it’s needed, cutoffs hitting mid-thigh to show her tanned legs and knees just this side of knobby. She freckles in summer and she’s quick to laugh, noticing small dramas playing out on in nearby cars or on the sidewalks when they hop off the highway. She talks the least but asks the most questions, waking up in the evening to talk to Lydia about stars and physics and the questionable existence of a higher power. 

Kira’s quiet, backwards cap and hoodie ever present, but her hands rarely leave Malia, and she’s usually the one with the best sense of direction. She drives most often at night, when Malia’s awake. They murmur to each other softly in the front seat, hands intertwined, as the stars rush by in faded wrinkles. Kira’s still pale, though the summer evenings bring a blush and a few freckles over the bridge of her nose. Her raspberry lip gloss sparkles in the flashes of street lights when she hums along to Fiona Apple and Ani DiFranco, turning on the radio and gently waking the others when morning begins to make itself known. 

They roll into Seattle in the early morning, when the coffee shops just begin to open; they witness the strangeness that is a 6am barista in its natural habitat (i.e. at any of several extremes) and the simultaneous glory of a latte that takes itself far, far too seriously. They see a show at a bar that’s so dark they can barely see but the whiskey is good and after the set Lydia watches Allison idly flirt with the auburn-haired girl from the last band, smirking to herself as Allison looks at Lydia over the girl’s shoulder. There’s an edge of a real grin there, a challenging one, and Lydia looks away when they kiss.

Portland is a little softer, a little kinder, and they spend long summer afternoons in the park, and mornings cuddled up in cafes drinking endless cups of thick Stumptown coffee. They wear flower crowns and browse through at least four or five bookstores, arguing about the patriarchy and the awesomeness of pie and all the loves they’ve never had, and they’re not sure where one of them ends and another begins when they curl up together in a hotel bed to watch the heat lightning through the window. 

The anxiety creeps in at the corners so they stop off at home; check in with the boys, their parents, reassure everyone and themselves that the status quo remains. There are a few nights when everyone’s glad to be in their own beds, but it feels odd to be separated by more than a blanket or at most a wall. They’re all restless within days. All four make their excuses and they’re off again for the last leg, stopping at the grocery store to restock on road food and cold beverages. 

They head out finally to Santa Monica because Kira loves the pier, and they get a little stoned with the remnants of their Washington or Oregon weed and watch the sunlight on the water in a dazed pile of beach-kissed limbs. Kira eats Dipping Dots until she can’t feel her lips and Malia decides she should probably kiss her to warm her up. The arcade is dark and welcomingly air conditioned, and Malia and Allison elbow each other at the games, grinning and snapping at each other to try to psych each other out. They all eat endless amounts of sushi and tacos and Korean bbq; surprisingly, Lydia’s favorite is the third option, and Allison weirdly likes how Lydia smells like smoke and meat after they go. 

The last hours spent headed home are wistful, California sky tinged pink and cerulean. The waves follow them on their left as they trace their way up Highway 101, words unnecessary, sand in their shoes. There’s something they bring with them then, a calmness and a certainty-- each moment feels stretched, like taffy, indelible in their memories and ripe with the promise of “next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now don't you want them to be in a band??


End file.
